The Pinocchio Complex
by Decisions Are Hard
Summary: John Watson knows that he was in a coma. He knows that Sherlock Holmes isn't real, that he's just a dream he had while he was sleeping the problem is he doesn't believe he could imagine anyone that vividly. Meanwhile Sherlock Holmes is looking for his missing flatmate only to find dead end after dead end, until a man named Sebastian Moran claims to know where to find him.
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own this show at all. I said it would arrive this year and it is here, for those that have waited for it thank you for waiting__. This is a continuation of the He Feared Series and it is easier to understand if you have read the first three one shots. The order is He Feared He Would Never know, He Feared it Would Never Stop, and He Feared He Would Never Understand. Now that that is out of the way please enjoy the story. _

John was beginning to get tired of the constant grey and white that flooded his vision. The lack of color and life in the facility was making him restless and it felt strange to say that he longed for the war but he did. He could never say it to the doctors. He couldn't bare to think of how much more they'd try and fix him if that he practically craved the blood and the violence, the constant danger that made his heart beat out a rhythm his blood sang to. He even missed the coma where his dreams were rife with mystery and danger and London had been a battle field and Sherlock Holmes his commanding officer. He missed the friendship they had as hectic as it was he'd never have traded it for this. Waking up to this every day he almost wanted to close his eyes and drift off again into that too real dream where he was more than just something broken.

He'd changed a lot since he'd been shot in the shoulder and fell into a sleep he wouldn't wake from. He didn't laugh anymore, not unless he was on the edge of hysterics. He didn't talk as much anymore because no one was there to talk to. The coma had changed him mentally and physically too. His muscles had atrophied, his skin had lost almost all of its color, and his eyes were like blank pools of brown blue water. He had to use a cane to steady every step or he'd fall his muscles too weak to hold him though he was almost strong enough to walk without it. He'd thrown himself into physical therapy and he was on his feet at least even if he was confined in this lifeless place where the halls seemed to go on forever and he was escorted back to his rooms if he caused trouble. Trouble being if he got too far away from his room, or picked a fight with another patient, or just complained once too often.

Right now he was in therapy listening as his therapist tried yet again to convince him to let go of the only thing that kept him sane in this utterly boring place. He now knew why Sherlock had shot at the walls, closed in at this place he felt like shooting things too. Now it was simple to understand why the man cried out bored and did things that no one with a lick of sense would do. In his dreams he knew Sherlock but he understood him better in this place. There was a reason he hadn't yet let go of the man from his dreams and it was the same reason he was in therapy at the moment instead of enjoying his time sitting on a bench in the courtyard.

"You know he wasn't real John." Dr. Thompson said slowly like he was talking to a child and not a fully grown man. Dr. Thompson was short but lean and it looked like a strong enough breeze would be enough to carry him away. John sometimes imagined the man floating up into the air like a kite. He even wished that Doctor Thompson would be picked up by the wind and never return.

"Sherlock Holmes is a figment of your imagination. No matter how real he seems to be he was just your minds way of dealing with the trauma. It's not uncommon for people in comas to have dreams, even vivid dreams that they believe are real." Dr. Thompson said adjusting his glasses again looking at him with beady eyes that together with his greased back brown greying hair made him look like a rat.

John's hands tightened into fists but he did nothing more than stew in his anger and talk in a tone that made it clear how certain he was. "I'm not crazy."

"I'm not saying that John." The man said with a tone that was almost too understanding as he crossed his legs and he pushed his ridiculously thin glasses up his nose. "I'm only saying that if you want to move on with your life you have to accept the truth and the truth is Sherlock Holmes isn't real. I want you to say it John. Even if you don't believe it now you need to say it and it will help you. Sherlock Holmes is not real and I do not need him anymore."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel like a dream." John said firmly unable to believe that he'd ever be able to imagine someone that vividly alive.

Dr. Thompson exhaled and shook his head. "I know that you want to believe that John but you can't keep chasing after a fantasy, it's not healthy."

"This place is a fantasy." John said bitterly a touch of false laughter on his lips, his eyes suddenly as cold as the artic winds. "I haven't heard anything about the outside world in my entire time here. It's been months you'd think I'd know something about what's going on in the world. I haven't seen the news, I haven't seen a newspaper, and I haven't heard from a single person since I've woken up. Where is Harry? Why hasn't my sister called me?"

Dr. Thompson smiled in a too kind way his thin lips twitching as though the gesture was unnatural. "Your sister has many problems John and as you know she's currently in rehab for her addiction. As she knows about your issues I feel that she's just protecting herself from a negative influence on her progress."

"Then why aren't I allowed to call her she could use my support?" John said standing to his feet leaning on his cane to keep him steady. "Why haven't I gotten a single letter or phone call since I've woken up? Why is it that anytime I ask a question about what's happened since I've been in a coma everyone pretends that I asked about the weather or how their bloody dog is doing? Why do I get the feeling that this place isn't what you're making it out to be?"

"You're displaying increasingly violent and paranoid behavior Dr. Watson." The man said with an excess of disdain on the word Doctor like John didn't deserve the title anymore. "This facility isn't just to protect you; it's to protect other people from you. With the way you are acting now it would be a disaster to release you. The reason you have not yet seen a newspaper or the nightly news is simple. We believe that the negativity it produces would impede your recovery it may even set it back. And the reason you're not yet allowed to talk with your sister is that it would be a setback for both of your recoveries."

John really did laugh then though there was no humor in it. "You really think that this is helping Dr. Thompson?" John said with a smile that was almost malicious mirroring the disdain that the therapist had shown for his title earlier. "You might as well be talking to a wall for all the good you're doing. I don't need to be here what I need is to talk to Harriet."

Dr. Thomson smirked looking like a chess player that had finally cornered his opponent's king. "If you don't need to be here John, then why did you say Sebastian Moran the last time I asked for your name?"

_T___hank yous to everyone who has read, reviewed, and/or favorited the He Feared Series. Special thanks to the guest who pointed out that I put comma instead of coma in the summary the error has been fixed.  
><em>_


	2. Chapter 2

_I do not own this show at all. Now that that is out of the way please enjoy the story._

"We could use your help." Lestrade said his voice soft as though he was trying to calm an angry dog. This case was like Moriarty's game all over again, people were missing, the media was in a panic, and Scotland Yard had more false leads than Doctor Who had episodes.

"Surely you cannot be that stupid Lestrade." Sherlock snapped though it lacked most of its usual bite.

Lestrade looked over at a man he only loosely considered to be a friend. Sherlock had changed, he was unshaven, there were bags under his eyes, his hair was greasy, his eyes glazed, and he looked like he hadn't so much as sniffed at a sandwich in months. It didn't take a Holmes to deduce that the man was quickly loosing hope. He sat down on the couch careful to avoid sitting in John's chair. "Look Sherlock I know that it must be difficult for you, but you have to face the fact that maybe the reason you haven't found John yet is that there is nothing left to be found. Maybe it is time to begin to move on with your life and get back to living again."

"There is always something! I know that Mycroft is behind it somehow and that is why I can't find anything." Sherlock snapped, suddenly looking as rabid and vicious as a mad dog.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair groaning in annoyance. "This again Sherlock? You are really trying to pin this on your brother? Mycroft might be a hard arse but I don't think he's a kidnapper."

"That's the problem Lestrade you don't think!" Sherlock snapped as he stood to his feet pacing in the frantic way he often did on a case that made his brain really work. "Mycroft is the British Government he's done things that would make you wet yourself in fear! I know that Mycroft is behind this he practically bragged about it the last time I saw him. He said that John had chosen to go, but John wouldn't have cut himself off like that. He would have said something, made plans, but you know he hasn't even spoken to Harry after his disappearance. He likes to check up on her every other week and see how she's doing why would he suddenly stop."

"Maybe he didn't want her to worry." Lestrade said though at Sherlock's glare at him he regretted speaking at all.

"He'd have said something if he didn't want her to worry. John's an idiot but he's smart enough to know that if you don't tell someone you are leaving they are going to expect the worst. Why would he put that stress on a sister who is currently undergoing rehab? Why would he remove one of her only supporters through this obviously tough time in her life?" Sherlock's pacing had grown more frantic and his hands ran through his hair. It reminded Lestrade of their first case with John, how much better Sherlock had been even in those first few hours with John Watson in his life.

"Maybe he didn't want to disappoint you?" Lestrade said suddenly, his voice taking on an odd tone as he considered it. "Maybe he couldn't take it anymore. Living with you and running off at all hours of the night, dealing with Harry, juggling a job, and your insistence that he join you on your mission to hunt down London's most interesting criminals. It all happened pretty fast and maybe Moriarty was the straw that broke the camel's back?"

"You're missing the obvious." Sherlock snapped. "His limp is proof enough that it wasn't too much for him. John didn't have any reason to leave Baker Street."

Lestrade shrugged. "You ever think that maybe he didn't need one?"

Sherlock whirled on him the look on his face stuck somewhere between heartache and rage and Lestrade knew that he'd struck a devastating blow. "I think you should leave now Inspector. You've done enough damage for today."

"Sherlock." Lestrade said, but he aborted his attempt to reason with Sherlock before he really even started. Nothing he said now would matter to the consulting detective. He left the room and stopped at the top of the stairs. "If you change your mind about helping us give me a call."

* * *

><p>"That thing you offered to do that was good. John! It doesn't matter! You can always tell a good Chinese place by the bottom of third of the door handle. Or better yet stop inflicting your opinions on the world. Afghanistan or Iraq? Sister! There's always something! Pink!" The deep baritone changed tone with every sentence. The words were jumbled, the memories and words swirling together as his mind danced at the edge of consciousness.<p>

"Sherlock!" John screamed his voice ragged as he shot up the taste and smells of chlorine and gunpowder following him into the waking world.

His chest heaved the thing shirt he'd worn to bed clinging to his sweat soaked skin. He closed his eyes to flickering views of an indoor pool as his mind tried to form the fragments and pieces of the dream into something cohesive. He turned on the light knowing that if he didn't want to be interrogated for longer than an hour he needed to record it as he was certain his outburst hadn't gone unnoticed. The journal and felt tip pen that sat on the small nightstand by his bed were mocking him, but he picked them up anyway. He opened the journal to a blank page and thought about his dream, trying to bring it back up into something that would suffice.

He closed his eyes and the pool, his last memory from the coma, took form. Only the memory was wrong instead of just being the one facing Sherlock he was also on the roof looking down at himself. There was a rifle in his hands and he had the bullet lined up with the bomb over the other John's heart. That was when he knew that this second view wasn't his memory, this was Sebastian's. Before the coma and in the coma he'd only been John, but when he woke up suddenly he wasn't himself. He knew things that he'd never known before, he felt things in different ways than he knew he should, he remembered things that never happened to him, and sometimes he saw someone else's reflection in the mirror.

He closed his eyes and he could see it clear as day, his finger steady on the trigger his breathing calm and even. The sight of the laser dancing over his own chest, the feel of his lips as they curled into a smile, and the disconnect from the victim that shared his face that he had in his sights. It all screamed of Sebastian Moran, the man that his therapist claimed was a mental manifestation of the darker aspects of his personality, his brains way of separating himself from what he'd done in the name of queen and country. He wasn't sure if he believed it or not, nonetheless he spent the rest of the night writing down the gist of the dream in an exercise he personally found pointless and invasive and his therapist somehow found enlightening. It was easier than admitting that every time Sebastian Moran interfered in his memory he was that much closer to believing that Dr. Thompson might be right. He was holding out he knew but as stubborn as he was he knew that he was beginning to crack. Sebastian was proof enough of that and he feared it wouldn't be long before he started to think that Sherlock Holmes was just a figment of his imagination. The idea didn't sit well with him.

_Thank yous to everyone, who read, reviewed, followed, and/or favorited._


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